


many crowns of violets

by acertainheight



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Aging, Alcohol, Angst, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, Fluff, Implied Sexual Content, Masturbation, Menstruation, Moving In Together, Multiple Pairings, Prompt Fill, Unrequited Love, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-30
Updated: 2016-08-31
Packaged: 2018-08-12 01:10:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 14,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7914556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acertainheight/pseuds/acertainheight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>and roses / at my side you put on / and many woven garlands / made of flowers / around your soft throat.</i>
</p><p>Assorted vignettes and one-shots, multiple f/f pairings. Chapters labelled by pairing and original prompt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. why do fools fall in love (f!hawke/isabela)

**Author's Note:**

> all of these were written in response to prompts and posted elsewhere over the past year or so, now collected here all in one place. chapters are labelled by pairings and will begin with the original prompt so you don't walk into anything you don't want accidentally. feel free to drop any and all femslash prompts in the comments and while i can't _promise_ a fill, i sure will try! :^) chapters will be added intermittently.

i. prompt: isabela and hawke bantering, laughing, kissing, both trying and failing at keeping it casual.

It starts like any other night—The Hanged Man, a round of drinks (“this round's on Hawke,” Varric bellows, and the cheer around the table drowns out Hawke's hopeless protestations), and a deck of cards, fluidly shuffled and dropped onto the table.  
  
“Who's up for a little game?” Varric asks. He leans forward, a spark in his eye. It's not a question so much as an order.  
  
Aveline groans and drops her head into her hands. “Tell me we're not playing by Isabela's rules again. I haven't recovered from last night yet.”  
  
Isabela draws herself up, looking indignant. “They're not _my_ rules. Strip Wicked Grace is a sacred tradition.”  
  
From beside her, Fenris snorts. “I didn't realize your interest in seeing Hawke naked was a sacred tradition.”  
  
Hawke can instantly feel her cheeks go pink; she's still not quite used to listening to the others trade quips about—whatever this is she has with Isabela. She clears her throat and pushes back from the table. “I'll go grab our drinks. The rest of you can stay here and debate your relative interest in seeing me naked.”  
  
“Mm,” Isabela says, resting her chin on her palm. “Hate to see you go, but you know the rest.”  
  
“You love to watch me come back with booze?”  
  
“You know me well, sweet thing.” Isabela flashes her a smile, slow and sweet as honey, and Hawke's heart hammers in her chest.  
  
She's pretty sure she's not supposed to feel like this, she thinks, making her way through the crowded room towards the bar. They're just friends. Friends who flirt incessantly, like it's the only language they know. Friends who get drunk and kiss—friends who shove each other up against barroom walls in dark corners and touch frantic and hot and heavy—friends who fall into Isabela's little bed in the back room together almost every night—  
  
Just friends. Isabela's made that clear again and again; she makes it clear every time she kicks Hawke out of her bed right after they've finished (gentle kisses to Hawke's neck, promises for the next night, laughter with firm steel beneath it). Just friends. That's what Hawke wanted, too. _Wants._ She'd been relieved, even, when Isabela had emphasized that none of this meant anything. Neither of them wanted more than what they had, and that was that. The end.  
  
Only, now Hawke's not sure exactly _what_ they have. It wasn't supposed to be like this: almost every night, always together, an unexpected softness around one another. Hawke can't remember the last time she slept with someone else; she only remembers that the last few times had felt like an obligation, a disappointing interlude before she could find her way back to Isabela. And it's been a long time since Isabela turned her down with some line about prior commitments; part of her can't imagine Isabela even finding the time to be with anyone else, not with how often they end their days together (and another part of her doesn't want to think about it, with a pang of something ugly that might be jealousy).  
  
But whatever's going on, it's different than it was. That much she knows.  
  
“Hawke. Hawke.” Corff waves his hand in front of her face. “Hey. You awake in there?”  
  
She jerks back to attention. “Oh. Hi. Please don't tell me how long I've been standing here staring at you.”  
  
He smiles. “How many can I get you?”  
  
Hawke glances back over her shoulder to count. Isabela's staring right at her, and when their eyes meet, Isabela immediately looks away. Hawke twists back to Corff, suddenly feeling scattered. “Um. Seven. Five of the usual and a water and a cordial.”  
  
“Sure thing.” He moves away, filling five cloudy mugs with the house specialty: a sour swill that straddles the fine line between just right and utterly undrinkable. The pale dandelion cordial is nearly as bitter as the ale, and Merrill may be the only one in Kirkwall who can stand it straight, but Varric keeps paying Corff to stock it; Varric doesn't like sending her home drunk, and _nobody_ likes it when Merrill accidentally lights the table on fire. It's not much longer before Corff's sliding the full tray over to her.  
  
“Put it on my tab,” she says, always dreading the day when he finally informs her she's all out of luck. “I'm hoping to win enough tonight to finally pay it off, but until then, you know how it is.”  
  
He chuckles. “Yeah, yeah. I know. You're really gonna make it big one of these days, is that it?”  
  
“That's it.” She grins and lifts the tray. “Thanks, Corff.”

By the time she makes it back to the table, they all look like they've been caught mid-argument. Hawke sets their drinks down and slips into the remaining empty spot, Isabela on one side, Varric on the other. She glances at Isabela and smiles. “I don't remember you sitting here.”  
  
“I made Fenris switch with me.” She rests her hand on Hawke's thigh beneath the table, something inscrutable in her golden eyes. “He and Anders kept shooting each other longing looks and I couldn't bear to keep them apart any longer.”  
  
Fenris scowls. “I can assure you, that wasn't the case.”  
  
“She threatened him with bodily harm,” Anders says cheerfully. He takes his water from the tray. “He started to refuse but then he realized she meant it and ran like a coward.”  
  
“I always mean it.” Isabela passes her a small stack of cards. “We dealt you in already. Ready?”  
  
“Always,” Hawke says. She wonders if the others can hear the pounding of her heart. She glances sideways at Isabela and again, Isabela quickly averts her eyes. There's something off, Hawke thinks, but she can't put her finger on it. The air between them crackles with some strange tension. Like a storm that's been building all day, leaving the air electric and the whole world charged before a drop of rain ever falls.  
  
“They all outvoted me,” Isabela says, looking at her own cards. “No stripping this time. Everyone felt like you would be humiliated enough by your inevitable defeat.”  
  
Hawke looks at her hand. Terrible. She grimaces, half-serious. “You're all so very funny.”  
  
“I voted for the stripping,” Merrill pipes up from across the table. “I think it's sort of sweet when you start to lose and Isabela gets all flustered.”  
  
Hawke looks at Isabela, who does in fact look slightly flustered, and then back at Merrill. “I don't lose every time,” she objects, playing a card.  
  
“You do,” Varric says. The others all nod in agreement.   
  
Isabela shifts a little closer to her on the bench. It's then that Hawke realizes she hasn't moved her hand in a few minutes; she's just resting it there on Hawke's leg. It's a gentle gesture. Intimate. Protective. And unnerving. “You have lots of tells,” Isabela says, dropping a card of her own and drawing another. “And you never notice when I'm cheating. That's why I always sit next to you.”  
  
Merrill frowns, first at her cards and then at Isabela. “You told me it was because you love being close to Hawke. You were telling me all about it yesterday.”  
  
Isabela makes a strangled sort of sound. “I don't think I said that.”  
  
“You did! You were saying all sorts of things about how much you—”  
  
“Leave it be, Kitten!” Isabela laughs, an edge to it, her eyes darting around the table. No one else speaks; Fenris looks like he'd rather be anywhere else in the world. But then again, he always looks like that.  
  
“It's alright.” Hawke studies her cards and plays another without looking up. Isabela feels so close that she can barely breathe, can barely form a coherent thought. She licks dry lips and manages to get a sentence out; by some great miracle, she keeps her tone light. “I love being next to Isabela, too. She's awfully nice. So we're even.”  
  
“I'll have you know I've never been awfully nice in my life.” Isabela drops another card and goes on, not making eye contact with Hawke. “Awfully gorgeous, maybe. Awfully charming. Awfully fun at parties.”  
  
Aveline slams one of her cards down like a hammer. “You don't come to _my_ parties.”  
  
“Hm.” Isabela's not exactly paying attention; she doesn't even bother with a predictable retort about the quality of Aveline's parties. Instead, she takes Hawke's hand under the table and runs her thumb over Hawke's knuckles, fingers tangled together. There's something about the touch that seems different, something that has Hawke thoroughly rattled—an unfamiliar hint of hesitance. “I don't think I get the invitations.”  
  
Aveline glowers. “I deliver them by hand.”  
  
“Angel of Death,” Varric declares, which is a fair description of Aveline's expression  _and_ the card he drops into the middle of the table. Hawke groans.  
  
“Four of a kind.” Isabela fans her cards in front of her to prove it. Anders makes an exaggerated gagging noise and she smiles sweetly at him. “Sore loser.”  
  
“Cheater,” Fenris mutters.   
  
“Obviously.” Isabela looks terribly smug and, Hawke thinks, hopelessly beautiful in the candlelight. There are worse things than losing to Isabela. Like not ever having any idea what she might be thinking.  
  
Hawke drops her cards. “No matches.”

“Too busy ogling a certain pirate to pay attention to your cards, maybe,” Anders suggests, which earns a laugh from Aveline and the ghost of a chuckle from Fenris. A flash of something like irritation crosses Isabela's face.  
  
“Beating Hawke is no consolation if I'm still losing. One more round,” Varric declares.

“Mm,” Isabela says. She runs one finger along the rim of her glass, a distant look in her eyes. “I think I've had enough, actually. I'm... tired.” She squeezes Hawke's hand, tight, and gives her a sideways glance.   
  
“That's it?” Aveline demands. She looks well and truly frustrated, never the most gracious of losers.  
  
“I'm just not in the mood. The rest of you can play without me. Keep your coin.” She stands up, tugging Hawke with her, not releasing her hand for an instant. Hawke nearly knocks her chair over in her haste to stand at Isabela's side.  
  
“And without Hawke. Have fun, ladies,” Anders says. He waggles his eyebrows suggestively and earns an appalled look from Aveline.  
  
“Come on,” Hawke murmurs. She's oblivious to the others; all it takes is the slightest touch from Isabela to make her forget everything else. “Let's go to bed.”  
  
When they make it into Isabela's room, she pushes Hawke up against the door, rougher than usual, lips burning hot as fire on Hawke's neck. Hawke shivers under her touch. “Hey,” she mumbles, “hey, is there—do you think there's anything we should talk about?”  
  
Isabela jerks back. “No. No, why? Do you—”  
  
Hawke wants to say _tell me what you're feeling, tell me everything, please, please._ Wants to fall on her knees and beg until, at last, the air is clear between them. But the plea sticks in her throat. “No, no! I just—I felt like—something just felt off, d'you know? You were acting sort of—well, I don't know—”  
  
“No, I don't know what you mean.” Isabela takes an unsteady breath. She smiles, tight. “I don't want to talk about it, alright? Let's focus on the important things. Like me undressing you.”  
  
They stare at each other for a long time, the same dark uncertainty reflected in each of their stares, and then they both nod.  
  
“Works for me,” Hawke says. She does her best to sound like she means it.


	2. pretty things like incense and flowers (isabela/merrill)

ii. prompt: isabela trying to play it cool and mask her giant crush on merrill.

Isabela is a lot of things, particularly if you ask _her_. Suave. Charming. Intimidating, even. Witty—absolutely hilarious, in her own professional opinion. Unflappable. She prides herself on this: a cool, collected exterior, a perfectly honed veneer of smooth charisma. No chinks in her armor.  
  
Except lately.  
  
Because lately, she's been spending a lot of time with Merrill.  
  
It doesn't seem fair, really—she's spent her whole life practicing the careful balance of detachment and charm. She'll flirt and laugh and it'll never mean a thing. Why should it? But a lifetime of hard work, and all it took was one green-eyed elf who stammers when she's nervous and turns red as a rose when Isabela smiles at her to ruin absolutely everything. So she's been trying to keep her distance, because that's easier than dealing with the unfamiliar feeling of her heart fluttering and her cheeks getting hot around Merrill. Only—she's not very good at it. Terrible, actually. Avoiding Merrill would mean saying no to her, and she's just not cut out for that. All it takes is one smile, one maybe-maybe-not accidental touch, and all her resolve goes out the window.  
  
And that's how she found herself following behind Merrill, drawn along for a mountainous afternoon hike with the mere promise of _something wonderful, you'll see_. Isabela isn't exactly the sort for an afternoon hike. But for Merrill—well, she'll be anything Merrill wants. Andraste's streaky knickers, she hardly recognizes herself these days. Hiking, for shit's sake.  
  
“Isabela! You're too slow!” Merrill turns to beam at Isabela over her shoulder, bouncing on her heels several steps ahead. They've been walking for what feels like a lifetime now up an ever-steepening path, but Merrill never seems to tire. “Are you coming or not?”  
  
Isabela pauses, settles her hands on her hips, and lifts a brow. “I'd move a little faster if you told me where we were going. I'm not feeling very motivated, Kitten.” (That's a lie, of course, and she knows it. Merrill's wide smile is all the motivation Isabela could ever need. Which is just... ugh.)  
  
“You'll see when we get there.” And Merrill skips ahead again, disappearing around the corner of the mountain pass. Isabela follows, more uncertain on the tall narrow steps up the slope than graceful Merrill, and she curses under her breath every time the loose rocks shift beneath her feet. Once upon a time, she would have laughed out loud at the notion of liking someone enough to climb a mountain for them. Yet here she is. And here's the mountain.  
  
“Almost there,” Merrill practically sings; Isabela smiles, drawn in despite her best efforts to resist Merrill's contagious enthusiasm.  
  
“I can hardly wait.” It comes out more serious than she intends—not the faintest trace of irony. Merrill has that effect on her. It's irritating, actually. Except that it's not.  
  
At last, the climb begins to level out and the ground begins to change beneath their feet, little tufts of grass popping up among the rocks. When they turn around the next corner, at last setting foot on level ground, Isabela's breath catches in her throat.

Merrill smiles and clutches at her arm. “It's lovely, isn't it?”  
  
It is. Their hike has brought them to a wide plain, cloaked in high grass and a dazzling array of wildflowers: abundant and free and as numerous as the stars. To one side, a wall of solid mountain looms too stark for any further ascent, blocking the meadow off from the rest of the world. But on the other side, the meadow ends in a sharp cliff, and in the distance the whole world seems to unfold in an intricate tapestry. The horizon extends unbroken as far as the eye can see, the sea bright and blue, the rest of the world so small that it looks like markings on a map.  
  
“Oh, Kitten,” she breaths, soft and dazed, “who knew there was such a perfect piece of paradise so close to Kirkwall?”  
  
“You can find this sort of thing anywhere, really, if you just look.”  
  
Isabela steps forward almost haltingly. The grass, swaying gently in the breeze, is so tall that she wades through it like high water. Merrill follows a step behind, humming soft and low to herself. Isabela hadn't realized how high they'd climbed; she's a little relieved, actually, to know she hadn't been so winded with no reason. She feels like she's in another world—like she's free as a bird. She never wants to go back to the city ever again. The city has problems; the meadow has Merrill.  
  
Merrill touches her back, and Isabela flinches despite the tenderness of the touch. “I found it looking for flowers. And it made me think of you. I just _had_ to show you.”  
  
That startles Isabela, and she turns, lips pursing skeptically. “I'd like to think that I'm not exactly the 'beautiful meadow' type, Kitten. I'm... the tough and gritty type.” She winks and Merrill smiles back, clearly not believing her for a minute.  
  
“Well, it made me think of _us_ is what I mean. Our, um, friendship. Because I love the flowers and the sunshine and it's just so beautiful, I adore it! Like walking into a secret! But then it also made me think of you.” She gestures out at the open sea a world below them. “It's beautiful but it's sort of dangerous too, do you see? And when you're up here, the whole world turns into wildflowers and the sea, and when I think of the sea, I think of you, and—oh, I'm babbling, aren't I?”  
  
Isabela swallows hard. “You're not babbling. It's sweet. You're utterly darling, Kitten. I'm flattered you thought of me.”  
  
Merrill hesitates, her smile faltering just a little. “And then I thought, when you get your boat and leave Kirkwall, I can come up here and look out at the sea and pretend you're not so far away.”  
  
“Ship,” Isabela corrects absently, not for the first time (it has to be intentional by now, she's sure of it—like every one of their friends has agreed to this pact of driving Isabela absolutely mad). She stares out at the vast ocean in front of them, so distant that it looks like an unbroken sheet of glass, and then she looks back at the woman beside her. Suddenly she can't remember why she's ever been so desperate to sail away. “At any rate, I'm not going anywhere any time soon, Kitten. No ship.”  
  
“But you will someday.” Merrill says it like it's fact, like she knows something even Isabela doesn't, and she lets out the very softest huff of a sigh at the thought.  
  
“Yes,” Isabela says. For a minute, that's all she can say. She bites her lip and tests the words in her mind, running through the sentence again and again before she finally takes the gamble: “You could always come with me, of course.”  
  
“Oh!” Merrill blinks. And then she lights up. “Do you mean it? Or are you only joking? Could I really?”  
  
Isabela matches her smile. “Why not? You'll need a peg leg, maybe a hook for a hand, but I'll make a pirate out of you eventually.”  
  
“Oh, Isabela,” Merrill cries. She wraps her arms around Isabela's waist and, surprised, Isabela mirrors the embrace.  
  
When Merrill starts to pull away from the hug, some thought half-formed on her lips, Isabela stops her—two fingers under her chin, feather-light. There's a half-second of uncertainty that feels like an eternity, both of them staring at each other. And then Isabela leans down and kisses her for the very first time, with all the slow certainty of a promise.


	3. be here in the morning (aveline/f!hawke)

iii. prompt: hawke and aveline falling in love from the very start, born from friendship and shared tragedy.

It's early in the morning when Hawke spots Aveline sitting down by the docks, red hair flashing like a beacon even in the soft light of dawn. Hawke takes a few steps closer and then thinks better of it. Odds are Aveline doesn't want to be disturbed; she looks so calm, her shoulders slack, her body empty of tension for once. She's not sure she's ever seen Aveline look so at ease. Hawke hangs back, just taking in the lovely hazy sight of her.   
  
And then Aveline glances over her shoulder idly and their eyes meet; Aveline smiles, just a little, and waves. Hawke makes her way to her side, glad for the invitation.   
  
“You're up early,” she says, lowering herself to sit beside Aveline, their legs hanging over the side of the dock. Aveline just nods. She's staring out at the ocean, brow slightly furrowed, and Hawke follows her gaze. “What are you looking at?”  
  
Aveline exhales. “Ferelden.” The word sounds like sour on her lips, a curse or a prayer or something in between.  
  
“Oh.” Hawke clears her throat and grins when Aveline glances at her. She gestures to one side. “I think it's, uh, actually that way.”   
  
Aveline chuckles. “D'you know what I think?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“I think you've never seen a map in your life.”  
  
Hawke laughs and they each scoot closer to the other until their legs are almost touching. Hawke tilts her head, watching Aveline's eyes focus on some nothing in the distance, studying each freckle on her nose. “Fair point. So what are you thinking about, then?”  
  
Aveline frowns. “You should know. If anyone would know, it ought to be you.” She pauses, and the only sound is the crashing of the waves against the pier and the shore. “Did we make the right choice? Coming here, I mean?”  
  
“What else would we have done?”  
  
“Stayed. Fought until the bitter end.” Aveline shrugs, her constant weariness visible even in the rise and fall of her broad shoulders. “You were a solider. Didn't you want a soldier's death?”  
  
Hawke snorts and shakes her head. “I wasn't like you. You were somebody. I was a nobody who kept getting written up for being bad at following directions. Darkspawn fodder. Can't say I ever really shared the same passion for the job.” She pauses, struck by something, and they glance at each other; Aveline's eyes are dark with sudden understanding. “Not like—not like my brother.”  
  
“Oh, Hawke,” Aveline sighs, soft and sympathetic. She frowns and looks back out at the sea. “We might have met on the battlefield at Ostagar in a different life. There 'til the last. Would that really have been so much worse than this? This unfamiliar city—and the two of us, reduced to a guard and a mercenary, scrabbling for every last coin and burying those we love?”  
  
Hawke rubs the back of her neck, turning the thought over. “I don't know. I'd rather be alive and insignificant than memorialized in a song about the last two warriors to fall at Ostagar. Very gorgeous but very stupid, all the poems would say. Just really, unbelievably stupid.”  
  
Aveline laughs; she doesn't sound like her heart's in it. “I don't think you'll need to die to get people to say that,” she says, prodding Hawke in the ribs.  
  
“Aveline! You think I'm gorgeous? I'm flattered.”  
  
“Ha. Nice try.” Aveline snorts. “You're not as funny as you think. I bet the poems would mention that too.”  
  
Hawke looks out at the ocean, dark and churning; everything she once had on the other side seems like another life now. “I'm glad we didn't meet on that battlefield. And I'm glad we made it here in one piece. Together.”  
  
“Well, it's different for you. You still have your mother and your sister. I've lost everything.” The moment the words are past her lips, Aveline shoots her a sideways glance, already looking apologetic.

“Right. Because it's such a delight to go home to my uncle's hovel and listen to my mother talk all night about how I let my brother die.” Hawke falters, her voice breaking at the end. She hardly has any anger left in her now, just grief, and Aveline doesn't deserve any of it. Her voice softens: “Anyway, you're not alone here. You've got me.”  
  
“And you've got me too, Hawke.” They're not so good at talking about their feelings, both terrible at apologies and heart-to-hearts. They're better at silent shared understandings. Sitting there, staring out at the same point in the sea, their breathing steadies into a rhythm.  
  
They sit there for a long time, seaspray on their faces, wind in their hair. At last, Aveline speaks again: “It was a miracle. For Wesley and I to both make it through Ostagar all the way to Lothering. He said we were blessed. Look how that turned out.”  
  
“Like shit,” Hawke says, voice somewhere between wry and bitter. They've had this conversation before, a hundred times now. They've cried about it, laughed through their tears, shouted up at the sky and whispered in each other's ears. They understand one another like no one else does. And it's not much, the smallest of comforts, but it's enough. Hawke gently nudges her side. “I mean, you're a little blessed still. I'm excellent company and you don't know what you'd do without me, right?”  
  
Hawke's grinning, fallen into her familiar role of softening Aveline's sorrow with a laugh, but Aveline looks at her with a sudden deadly seriousness. “I really don't know what I'd do, Hawke. You're... you're good. And I'm grateful for you.”  
  
“Ugh,” Hawke says. She smiles. “Watch it, Vallen. I'm starting to get the impression you're soft on me.”  
  
“I'm _fond_ of you,” Aveline says sternly, as if there's much of a difference.  
  
Their hands are half an inch apart between them on the pier. Hawke shifts her hand, just close enough that their fingers brush. Aveline moves her hand away—and then she rests it on top of Hawke's hand, fingers closing around Hawke's. She doesn't look away from the horizon.  
  
“I'm not ready,” Aveline says. “Just so you know. I know we haven't had that conversation, but I know you've thought it—well, I've thought it too, actually, a few times, but—”  
  
“Haven't the foggiest what you're talking about,” Hawke cuts her off, cheerful. She twists her hand so the palm faces up, their fingers weaving together. “You know I know that. I'd never ask anything of you, Aveline.”  
  
Hawke can see a smile tugging at the corner of Aveline's lips. She squeezes Hawke's hand. “You ask me for things all the time. 'Ooh, Aveline, I'm about to commit a terrible crime, can I please borrow your uniform so I don't look suspicious, I'll get it back to you right away, I promise.'”  
  
“I'll have you know I don't commit terrible crimes. Just the regular sort. Anyway, I'm pretty sure it doesn't even count if I have good intentions.”  
  
“Are you an expert on the law now?” Aveline looks at her sideways, smiles, and then leans to rest her head on Hawke's shoulder. Her voice softens. “I'm not ready. But I think I will be. Someday.”  
  
“Well,” Hawke says slowly, drawing out the world. Her chest feels warm and tight. “Until then, I'm honored to be your friend, Guardswoman. Even if you pretend you don't know me in public sometimes.”  
  
Aveline laughs, and for the first time all morning, the sound is sincere. They sit there, still and content, and watch the sun creep steadily higher in the sky.


	4. let's put our hearts together (f!hawke/merrill)

iv. prompt: hawke helping merrill tote her belongings across town when they move in together.

In some stroke of incredible luck, they'd managed to pick a moving day that was somehow both rainy _and_ stiflingly hot; it's so terrible as to be almost impressive, Hawke thinks, peering out Merrill's window at the drizzle still coming down outside. But they'd already committed, made their promises to Merrill's landlady (the most intimidating woman Hawke's ever met in her whole life, including Aveline on a bad day), and started to pack up Merrill's belongings. Too late now.  
  
“Has the rain stopped?” Merrill calls from the back room.   
  
“What do you think?” Hawke calls back. She can hear Merrill sigh all the way across the house.  
  
“Maybe we ought to just throw my things away. I don't have anything important, really.”  
  
Hawke turns away from the window—she's nearly certain that it starts raining harder every time she looks out, anyway—and joins Merrill in the other room. She frowns. “Wait. Is this all you have?”  
  
Merrill looks at the boxes in front of her and then glances around the rest of the room. “Is that bad?”  
  
Somehow, Merrill's managed to fit all her worldly possessions into three small boxes. Hawke's never been so impressed by her, which is saying quite a bit, considering how often she's utterly overwhelmed with pride and awe. “This isn't bad at all! We can get this all in one go!”  
  
“Do you think so?” Merrill crinkles her nose. “It feels like a lot, don't you think?”  
  
“I have a feeling we can handle it.” Hawke holds out her hand and Merrill grabs it; she tugs herself to her feet and Hawke pulls her into a tight embrace. Merrill presses her face against Hawke's neck and Hawke grins into her hair. They sway softly, silent for a long moment, utterly caught up in one another. “It's really happening,” Hawke says, still nearly stunned by the thought. Really, really happening.  
  
“It really is.”  
  
“You're going to _live_ with me.”  
  
“I really am.” Merrill pulls back and fixes Hawke with the widest of smiles. “I'll have to listen to you snore every night now, then, won't I?”  
  
“I don't! Not even a little bit!” They both laugh, Hawke trying and failing to stay indignant.  
  
Merrill goes up on her tiptoes and kisses Hawke, sweet and soft. “I can't imagine anything better.”  
  
“Nothing at all? What about a world where you're moving in with me and it's cool and dry outside?”  
  
“Maybe that,” Merrill allows. She bends down and picks up the biggest of the three boxes, handing it off to Hawke. “Can you do two?”  
  
“I'll have you know I can do anything,” Hawke says. But she still lets out a dramatic grunt when Merrill sets a second box on top of the first. “Maker, what have you packed? Bricks?”  
  
“Only a few.” Merrill scoops up the final box but pauses, slowly turning around, taking in the now-bare room. “Oh, I'll miss this little place. It was such a good home to me. And I loved living here, with such wonderful neighbors. I don't think your neighbors will be so nice. They always frown down their noses at me when we're together.”  
  
Hawke shifts the weight of the boxes in her arms. “You know, I'd love to talk about my terrible neighbors, but at a certain point, my arms are absolutely going to fall off.”  
  
Merrill giggles. “We can't have that. Into the rain?”  
  
“Into the rain!”  
  
They stagger out the door into the summer storm. It's a miserable, terrible day, and it only takes seconds before Hawke's sticky with humidity and slick with rain—her soaking-wet bangs stuck in front of her eyes, blinding her; her tunic clinging to her skin; her muscles burning with every slippery step.   
  
She's never been so happy in all her life.

She feels like she's been waiting for this moment since the day they met. They'd known each other for not quite an hour, and Hawke had already been hopelessly head-over-heels in love—she'd fallen so fast that she's been in a daze ever since. But even as flirtation turned into something more, shy kisses and nervous hand-holding, she'd never imagined anything as wonderful as this. So what's a little rain, really?  
  
She and Merrill exchange a glance over the tops of the boxes and grin at each other.   
  
“It's raining harder,” Merrill says, and she's right: the drizzle is slowly turning into a thunderstorm, and here they are, caught right in the middle of it.  
  
“I've noticed, thank you very much.” Hawke smiles. She thinks her chest might burst from love alone.  
  
When they at last make it to the estate, taking their final stumbling steps through the torrential downpour, they fall through the door at once, slamming it shut behind them. Hawke drops the boxes to the floor and slumps down against the wall. When she extends a hand, Merrill accepts it, letting Hawke tug her down to sit beside her on the floor.  
  
“We did it,” Merrill declares, beaming wide and bright as the sun. Hawke wraps her arms around Merrill's slender waist and tugs her close, nearly in her lap, kissing her forehead, then her cheek, then her lips.  
  
“We did. We're incredible. Downright inspirational. Somehow we managed to haul all three boxes across town.”  
  
Merrill giggles and presses her face into Hawke's neck, kissing soft against her collarbone. “I'm glad we didn't ask anyone for help. It would have been very embarrassing.”  
  
“That's us—strong, tough, self-reliant. Dangerously good-looking.” Hawke slumps further down against the wall and Merrill shifts with her, until she's almost lying on top of Hawke. “I'm glad it's just the two of us, anyway,” she says, voice softening. She touches Merrill's cheek and Merrill closes her eyes, leaning into the touch.   
  
“Me too.”  
  
“Hey,” Hawke says, suddenly, and Merrill pulls back to look at her. Hawke smiles. “Welcome home.”  
  
“Oh, Hawke,” Merrill sighs, whole face aglow with happiness. She lowers her head back to Hawke's chest again. “I'm glad you're my home now.”


	5. best laid plans (f!hawke/isabela)

v. prompt: hawke and isabela attempt to have a threesome and strike out [implied future hawke/isabela/fenris].

“Hi, Anders,” Hawke begins, voice bright with a confidence she doesn't quite have. “Nice to see you. Lovely day. So! You look busy so I'll, um, cut to the chase. Isabela and I were talking the other night, and she reminded me about that time the two of you met a few years back.”

Anders doesn't respond, his brow furrowed in concentration or consternation as he stares down at the tattered pages in front of him. His hair is mussed, loose strands tumbling out of their tie, and he's chewing absentmindedly on his pen in a way that almost makes Hawke lose her train of thought until Isabela nudges her from behind. She coughs, just a bit nervous, and continues.

“Anyway. She was telling me about this electricity thing you do, and I was thinking, maybe you could show it to me sometime? Er, rather, we were thinking that you could show it to us, if you know what I mean. D'you know what I mean?”

At that, Anders finally looks up, one brow raised, and glances between the two of them. “I'm sorry, did you—are you propositioning me without so much as a 'how are you, Anders'? The answer to how I am, by the way, is busy.”

“That was the plan,” Isabela sighs, sidling around Hawke to rest her elbows on Anders' desk before leaning forward, obscuring the scattered pages of his manifesto, “only she's rather terrible at it, isn't she? But yes. We're propositioning you. Up for a roll in the hay, Sparkles?”

“Hold on just a minute! If I'm so terrible at it, you should have taken the lead!” Hawke objects, suddenly indignant. “I don't have any practice at this sort of thing!”

“Well, I just assumed you might have a bit more tact!”

“I'll have you know that I'm the most tactful woman in all of Kirkwall!”

“Oh, are you?”

“I most certainly am!”

Anders groans and buries his head in his hands (distinctly _not_ looking at her cleavage, Isabela notices, which is more than a touch insulting, really). “I'll give you each a sovereign to go away and let me finish this page.”

Hawke glances at Isabela and back at Anders, hopeful. “But after you're done with the page..?”

“Don't even think about it. You know, there are more important things in this world than sex,” Anders says, rubbing his forehead, his ink-stained fingers leaving behind distinct dark marks of his exasperation.

Isabela looks appalled. She can't drag Hawke out of the clinic fast enough.

 

*

“Varric, your room is filthy,” Isabela observes, letting herself into his chambers without bothering to knock. “Don't you ever tidy up in here?”

“Hello to you too,” Varric greets her, glancing over his shoulder from his seat at his desk. He gestures vaguely with a wave of his hand, eyes crinkled with amusement, wry smile stretching across his face. “What can I do for you today, Rivaini?”

Isabela wanders over to stand behind him, hips swaying with each step, before she settles a hand on his shoulder and leans over to examine the page he's been writing. “I just thought I'd come say hello. Mm, it's hot in here, isn't it? You should open a window. You're all sweaty.” She rubs his shoulder for a moment, kneading stiff muscles, and then slides her hand down to his chest, running her fingers through the thick auburn curls spilling past his unbuttoned shirt.

“Just here to say hello, huh?” Varric lifts a brow but doesn't object; instead he leans back in the chair, kicking his feet up on the desk and wordlessly offering her better leverage. Isabela snakes her other hand over his shoulder, too, stroking his chest, her breasts pressed up against the back of his neck as she leans forward to caress him. Varric grunts softly, appreciatively, before finally speaking up: “You sure you don't want somethin'? 'Cause this seems a little weird.”

“Well, now that you mention it...” Isabela steps to the side, dropping to her knees and settling her hands on his legs; she lets her fingers graze over the crotch of his tight leather trousers. Desperate times call for desperate measures, she thinks. “You and Bianca—are you really such an exclusive deal?”

Varric chuckles, looking utterly unaffected despite Isabela's best efforts, much to her dismay.  “Ask me a more specific question and maybe I can answer it.”

“Do you ever let her out to have a bit of fun? Say, perhaps the sort of fun that a lovely crossbow could only have in the loving arms of two gorgeous women?”

“You, Hawke, and Bianca? Is that what you're asking?”

“Please, Varric, please, I'm begging you! I can't resist her any longer! I'll die if you keep us apart!”

He laughs, a deep belly laugh, and shakes his head. “Nice try, Rivaini, but the answer's the same as ever. Bianca's a one man kind of crossbow, just like I'm a one crossbow kind of man.”

Isabela groans and flops down across the floor as dramatically as she can manage. “Fine. Can Hawke and I at least watch you oil her up?”

“That much I can manage.”

 

*

“Merrill!” Hawke waves a hand, beaming when she catches Merrill's eye. Merrill looks relieved to have spotted her friends in the darkness of The Hanged Man—it's a particularly crowded night, loud and dark, and Merrill scoots through the crowd to reach Hawke and Isabela's table as quickly as she can.

“Hi!” Merrill chirps. “Oh, I'm so glad you're here! I was worried that nobody I know would be here and then I'd have to play cards all by myself and I don't really know the rules, so that wouldn't be much fun, would it?”

“You're darling, Kitten,” Isabela laughs, voice low and rough, practically a purr. “Come and sit with me? We were just talking about you.”

She guides Merrill into her lap with one hand, squeezing her waist and tugging her close—it's a familiar, teasing display of affection, and Merrill giggles and leans back against Isabela, basking in the attention. “What were you saying about me?”

“That you look lovely tonight, Merrill,” Hawke says, smiling. “Can I go get you a drink or anything?”

“Oh, yes! A glass of water would be wonderful!”

Hawke and Isabela exchange a loaded smile; Hawke rises, heading over to the bar with the intention of taking her time, and Isabela runs her hands along Merrill's legs. “Kitten, how would you feel about coming back to Hawke's place with us tonight?”

Merrill nods, eager. “That would be fun! What would we do?”

“Surely you have some idea,” Isabela presses, her lips brushing against the sensitive ridge of Merrill's ear in just the right way to send goosebumps scattering along Merrill's thin arms.

“Not really,” Merrill says slowly, tilting her head in thought, “unless—is it a surprise party?”

“Not quite. We just thought it might be fun to have you join us in the bedroom.” Isabela brushes Merrill's neck with her lips as she leans back in the chair, light and teasing. “Have you ever thought about that before?

“Like a sleepover?”

“Well, we wouldn't be doing much sleeping.”

“Oh—oh! Oh!” Merrill twists around, pinning Isabela with a wide-eyed stare. “You mean—oh. I see.”

Isabela laughs. “You've got it all figured out now. What do you say?”

“I'm not sure. I'm terrible at knitting.”

Isabela stares at her for a long moment, unsure whether Merrill is as oblivious as she seems or if she's just trying to politely reject them. The first seems unlikely; the second seems so embarrassing that Isabela refuses to believe it. And then she grins, sighs, and shakes her head, resigned to defeat. “A fair point. Maybe another night, then?”

When Hawke makes it back to the table, a glass of water in one hand and a question in her eyes, Isabela just shrugs and shakes her head. Sometimes you strike out before you even begin.

 

*

“Aveline, I was wondering—”

“No.”

“You didn't even let me fini—”

“No.”

“But you—”

“Walk away, Isabela. Walk away.”

 

*

“There's just something about a man in armor, isn't there?”

“Mm,” Hawke agrees. She and Isabela exchange a smile, walking hand-in-hand only a few steps behind Fenris after a long day wasted chasing bandits. There's an edge to Isabela's smile, and it's all the prompting Hawke needs to launch into familiar, only-half-teasing banter. “Do you know what's even better? When it's all intimidating, like the armor is a weapon all itself. A man with an aura of danger is terribly stirring.”

Isabela laughs. Her voice drops to a low, sultry murmur, just loud enough for anyone who happened to be listening closely to hear. “Ooh, and it's best of all if he happens to be toting around a big sword—and if he knows how to use it.”

“Mm, definitely. It shows he's good with his hands.”

“And that he knows how to play rough. That's what I'm looking for.”

Hawke grins and raises her voice just a touch. “Well, if you were going to bring someone like that into your bed, I think I'd demand an invitation.”

“Not a bad plan, sweet thing.”

At that, Fenris comes to a grinding stop in front of them. He twists around, glowering out from beneath furrowed brows, looking between the two of them accusingly. “Are you talking about me behind my back?”

“Are we?” Isabela widens her eyes and looks at Hawke. “I thought we were speaking purely hypothetically.”

“You were speaking of me,” Fenris insists. “I heard you. You were thinking of me in—in a vulgar manner.”

“Purely hypothetical,” Hawke echoes. She shakes her head, the picture of innocence. “Can't say I was thinking of anyone in particular.”

Isabela nods. “No one special at all. Although, hypothetically, now that you mention it—I suppose you do fit the description, don't you, Fenris?”

“So you seem to be suggesting,” he snaps. He crosses his arms, looking thoroughly unamused, and for a second Hawke thinks they've gone too far in their teasing. But Isabela barrels on, a spark in her eyes.

“If we were talking about you,” Isabela muses, “which we weren't, what would you say if we invited you to join us in bed one night?”

Fenris pauses, watching them through narrowed eyes for a moment, and then shrugs stiffly. “Hypothetically? I would consider such an offer.”

Hawke opens and closes her mouth, not quite able to believe that she's heard him correctly. Isabela takes a deep breath, eyes suddenly as hungry as a predator who's just cornered her prey. “And?”

A slow, dark smile spreads across Fenris's face. He moves closer in two easy strides until he's only inches away from Isabela; it occurs to Hawke that maybe Isabela isn't the predator after all. “And then, hypothetically, I would wait to give my answer until you were ready to get down on your knees and ask politely.”

They gape at him for a moment, neither quite able to come up with a coherent response; he eyes them for a moment longer and then turns away, continuing on exactly as if they had never interrupted him.

“I think—” Hawke begins. Isabela nods very rapidly.

“Yes. I think yes.”


	6. as time goes by (f!hawke/isabela)

vi. prompt: act iii hawke worries that her LI will lose interest in her because she's getting older.

“Isabela! Isabela, come quick!”

Hawke's voice rings out loud and clear through the estate, tinged with just a hint of panic. It's the voice she usually reserves for crises and disasters, and it's enough to make Isabela come running. She drops her book—and the quill she's been using to draw obscene pictures in the margins—and all but sprints towards the bathroom, the source of Hawke's cries. She bursts through the door hardly a minute after the first shout. “Hawke! Are you alright? What is it?”

“Oh, hi,” Hawke says absently, as if she hadn't been shouting Isabela's name just seconds ago. She doesn't even look up, too preoccupied with something she's studying in the mirror. Her brow is furrowed and her face is clouded over with a frown, an almost-unfamiliar expression on her.

“Are you alright?” Isabela repeats through strained breaths, more insistent this time. She isn't sure what she had been expecting (maybe a horde of masked marauders pouring through the windows? a giant monster of one variety or another? Aveline in a foul mood?), but it wasn't this.

“Is this a grey hair?” Hawke glances up from the mirror, pointing vaguely at a spot on the top of her head. “Look at this and tell me it's not a grey hair, please.”

Isabela slumps against the doorframe and tilts her head up to the ceiling, as if the Maker might be looking down and sharing a commiserating glance with her. “Andraste's left tit, I ran up the stairs for this? I'm moving out.”

“Isabela,” Hawke pleads, and Isabela groans and acquiesces. Hawke has to bend down for Isabela to see the top of her head; too tall for convenience, Isabela thinks, not for the first time. She runs her fingers through Hawke's dark tangle of hair, combing through it for a slow moment before she sees the offending hair: undeniably grey, and flanked by several more that seem to have escaped Hawke's notice. Isabela decides that maybe she's better off not mentioning those.

“It's... well, it's not _-not_ grey,” Isabela offers (rather generously, she thinks), and kisses the top of Hawke's head before stepping back and letting her straighten up. “Surprise, years of trying to solve every single problem in this shithole of a city might lead to a grey hair or two. The world isn't ending. Are we done here?”

Hawke moans and buries her face in her hands. “I knew it.”

Once again Isabela looks up at the ceiling, this time with a sigh dramatic enough to rival Hawke's display. “You knew what, exactly?”

“I'm going grey. I'm _old_ now. One foot in the grave already.” She groans into her hands without looking up. “And soon I'm going to be all dried up and old and probably a bit smelly, if I'm being honest, I'm one of those people who will be dreadfully smelly when she's old, and you aren't going to want to have anything to do with me.”

“You're joking, right?” Isabela demands, more than a little bit indignant at the implication. Hawke looks up at her with that infuriatingly endearing, guileless look that suggests that no, believe it or not, she's really not joking. “Hawke, you do realize that if you're so ancient at thirty, I might as well be dead? I've been making you celebrate my 28th birthday every year since we met.”

Hawke opens her mouth and then closes it, as if she's just now putting the pieces together; math has never been her strong suit. “I know that,” she says. And then, almost petulant: “But  _you_ don't have any grey hairs.”

Isabela wants to laugh, or brush it off as absurd, or tease her—but then Hawke glances away, ducks her head with a shy insecurity that Isabela hasn't seen from her in years, and she realizes that Hawke is genuinely upset. “Oh, come here, sweet thing,” Isabela sighs, and she catches Hawke by the waist, tugging her close. She runs a hand through Hawke's hair, still the same uneven chop after so many years, and presses a tender kiss to the corner of her mouth. “Do me a favor and undress me, hm?”

Hawke brightens just a little at that. “If you're trying to distract me, it's working.” She reaches for the laces of Isabela's corset, unwinding them with an easy familiarity, carefully easing the snug piece of clothing up and away.

Isabela lets out a sharp huff of breath at the immense relief of the loosening corset. “Doesn't fit quite as well as it used to,” she says, pointedly lifting a brow. It's true; once upon a time, the corset's main function had been to show off Isabela's considerable cleavage—and that's no less true now—but these days she's finding that her waistline needs the tight restraint of the corset just as much as her breasts need the support. She's softer around the middle than she used to be, too many years ashore and too many nights at the Hanged Man and not nearly enough life-threatening danger, and it was only the other month that the tailor gave her a skeptical look and remarked that he wasn't sure how much more he could let the corset out.

Hawke touches Isabela with a gentle reverence as the corset slides over her shoulders, gently tracing over the swell of her belly and down along her wide hips. “Is there a point to this activity other than to leave me thoroughly overwhelmed by how gorgeous you are?”

“The point is,” Isabela says, catching Hawke's hands and guiding them down to her ass and thighs—thick, sturdy, painted with a pale spiderweb of stretch marks, “that nobody looks the same after ten years.”

“You're just as stunning as you were the day we met,” Hawke says, a smile spilling wide across her face at the memory. She can't keep her hands to herself; she caresses Isabela's hips, lets her fingers dance across her breasts, squeezes her ass, and draws her in for an eager kiss.

Isabela laughs against Hawke's lips and pulls away only to scatter a flurry of kisses along her jaw and neck. “Mm. And so are you, grey hairs and all. I'll be reminding you of that until we're too old to remember each other's names. Even if you're smelly.  _That's_ the point, and don't you forget it.”

“I just—” Hawke hesitates and laughs, looking almost nervous. “I just want to make sure you're still attracted to me. That's all. You never know when you might decide to trade me in for a young, strapping, oiled-up replacement.”

Isabela pulls back and catches Hawke's face in her hands. She stares into those sea-blue eyes for a long moment, wondering how someone so brilliant can be so obtuse. And then she leans up to kiss her again. “Hawke, you absolute goose, you know I won't. You have a grey hair or two, I'm sagging in all the wrong places, we both probably have more wrinkles than we'd like, I'm right on the brink of old and you're getting there. It is what it is. Let's focus on the important things in life, hm?”

Hawke smiles, like she knows what's coming next. “What are the important things?”

“Oh, you know. You, me, me on top of you, the usual.” She gives Hawke a playful shove, pushing her out of the washroom and back into their bedroom.  _Their_ bedroom. One of Isabela's favorite phrases, which is just one more reason she can't quite recognize herself these days. All for the better, she thinks. 

“Good plan.” Hawke laughs, wraps her arms around Isabela, and captures her in a kiss. “ _Very_ good plan.” They stumble across the room together, suddenly too caught up in the gravity of hands and lips to speak or think. Isabela pins Hawke against their bed; Hawke grabs Isabela's wrists and pulls her down on top of her.

They move with a familiar, long-practiced grace, Isabela slipping off Hawke's tunic in one smooth movement, Hawke canting her hips up against Isabela at just the right angle to get the friction she's already craving. Isabela grinds down against Hawke, pinning her flat against the mattress, and pulls her head back to kiss and bite at her neck with one hand knotted in her hair. She can feel Hawke's smallclothes already wet against her broad thigh; she pushes against her, cherishes each small gasp and moan that slips past Hawke's lips, and lowers her mouth to Hawke's breasts.

Each kiss is a promise, and when Hawke at last comes undone beneath her, Isabela wraps her up in an embrace that outweighs any vow: _That's the point, and don't you forget it._


	7. a kiss of wild honey (aveline/isabela)

vii. prompt: aveline and isabela finally confess their mutual crushes and go on a date.

“You're drunk, Guard Captain,” Isabela drawls, her own voice heavy with liquor and her eyes half-lidded as she stares up at Aveline from beneath long lashes. She reclines in her chair, tosses her legs up on her desk, and nods knowingly, as if Aveline's drunkenness is some secret known only to her. It wouldn't be the only one of Aveline's secrets that rests with Isabela alone. The thought makes Aveline's head ache.  
  
Aveline licks her dry lips and clears her throat. Isabela's little room here in the back of the Hanged Man feels stiflingly hot—it's hard to breathe, hard to focus on anything at all. It takes her a moment to find her voice. “You're drunker. Drunkest. More drunk.”  
  
“I'll have you know I'm as jober as a sudge.” She giggles at that, like it's the funniest thing she's ever heard; she laughs easier and louder with every drink, and the sound of her warm laughter is making Aveline's head feel all fuzzy. Or maybe that's the alcohol. Maybe both.  
  
Isabela shifts in her seat, slipping back further and kicking her legs up higher, and Aveline swallows hard as her tunic falls back and reveals another inch of bare skin. It's a scanty outfit, even for Isabela—it's the hottest day of summer so far, and when Aveline had followed her to her room for one last drink, Isabela had immediately kicked off her boots and stripped off one layer at a time until this gauzy tunic was all she wore. Aveline had tried to awkwardly look away while Isabela undressed; now it's all she can do to tear her gaze away from her. Clad in her summer armor—leather, only marginally less miserable than a full suit of iron in the heat—Aveline feels out of place. Isabela looks bare and beautiful and bewilderingly intimate.

She'd thought this was getting easier, the occasional night spent chatting and drinking with Isabela. It is, in fact, most definitely not. Weeks into it, Aveline can hardly remember how they'd gotten to this point. They'd been enemies. And then friends, drinking and laughing and sharing stories as freely as the wine. And now, somehow, Aveline's sitting here desperately willing herself to look anywhere at all other than Isabela. She's starting to feel like her hopeless preoccupation with Isabela has been some fever dream all along. Maybe _Isabela_ is just some mad dream.  
  
Aveline wipes at the sweat beading on her brow. She knows she must look a mess, all red and sweaty, stiff and uncomfortable. Isabela's sweating, too, but not like Aveline—only the faintest sheen over her dark skin. She looks beautiful, unfazed by the heat, too lovely to be real. Aveline takes another long swig from the bottle in her hand and tries to clear her head. It doesn't help.  
  
“You're staring at my tits,” Isabela observes merrily. “Pass me that bottle.”  
  
Aveline jerks her gaze up and only grips the bottle tighter; she can feel her cheeks instantly heating up. “I am not! I wasn't!”  
  
“S'alright.” Isabela grins. “Go ahead, stare all you want, get hot and bothered. Guardsman Sideburns won't know what hit him when you sweep him off his feet later tonight. He might get confused when you call him Isabela, but—”  
  
“Knock it off,” Aveline snaps. There's none of her usual fire in her words. She scowls and tries to look like she really means it, but she's too drunk for anger—too preoccupied with studying the perfect curve of Isabela's smile. “Donnic is a good man. Don't mock him.”  
  
“I'm not! I'm mocking _you_. Have another drink. You look much too serious.” Isabela smiles again, but it only lasts for a second. She casts her gaze up to the ceiling and stares at the corner over Aveline's head. “I'm sure the two of you will be very tall together. Happy, I mean. Very tall and happy.”  
  
Aveline frowns. “I'm not interested in him. How many times do I have to say that?”  
  
“Sure you aren't, big girl.” Isabela laughs and shakes her head, dispelling any hint of anything other than amusement in her expression. “I've seen the way you look at him—and the way he looks at you.”  
  
“You're the only one who's ever noticed that,” Aveline says. She takes a breath and then charges forward: “The way you bring it up so often, I'm starting to think you're jealous.”  
  
Isabela's gaze returns to Aveline. She frowns instead of scoffing, which makes Aveline's chest go tight. “What?”  
  
“Maybe you're the one who has—well, you know what I mean. You're the one—”  
  
“What, with _feelings_ for you?” The word drips with scorn. Isabela snorts and shakes her head. “You're drunker than I thought, big girl.”  
  
A long moment passes, Aveline staring at her hands, breathing deeply, trying to still her racing heart. Better to be drunk and humiliated than sober, she thinks. If everything had to go terribly wrong—if she had to show her hand to Isabela only to have her coldly brush it off—at least she's well and truly drunk. Small comforts, she supposes.  
  
Finally, an eternity later, Isabela speaks again. There's the faintest of tremors in her voice below the amusement, something the alcohol can't mask: “What would you do, then? If I told you I wanted you. Hypothetically speaking, I mean.”

Aveline looks up. Isabela's watching her intently, eyes dark and dangerous; Aveline flushes under the weight of her stare. “Well, I would—erm—I don't know, really.”

“You don't know?” Isabela lifts a brow and tugs her lip between her teeth in a way that makes Aveline feel suddenly, helplessly reckless.

To hell with it, Aveline decides. She grips the neck of the bottle like her life depends on it. To bloody fucking hell and back. “I suppose I'd say that I want you, too.”  
  
Isabela doesn't speak. Instead she rises from her chair, slow and languid, and she stretches like a cat. Aveline's gaze traces over her from head to toe: the way her tunic clings to her skin in the heat, the soft curve of her hips, her wide bare thighs, her breasts threatening to spill past the loose ties of her tunic. As Isabela pads across the room, Aveline finds herself forgetting how to breathe.  
  
Isabela stops right in front of her, so close Aveline has to tilt her head back to meet her gaze. Isabela rests her hands on her hips. “Alright. I want you. How's that? Yes, I'm jealous, because yes, I'd like to ravish you myself right this minute. Better?”  
  
All Aveline can do is stare blankly, dazed. She finally manages to choke out words: “Yes, yes, that's better.”  
  
Isabela hums low in her throat, her eyes sparkling now. “Really?”

It's the only time Aveline thinks she's ever heard Isabela ask a question without sounding like she already knows the answer. “Really,” she says. She can't believe that's her own voice coming right out of her throat; she can't believe the surprise and delight turning Isabela's eyes to molten gold, making her look young and unfamiliar and earth-shatteringly gorgeous. 

“Well,” Isabela says, “fancy that.” She takes a step forward, leans in—  
  
“Take me to dinner,” Aveline blurts with Isabela an inch away. And then she wonders what she ever did to deserve being so damn  _stupid._ But the words are out and it's too late to bite them back and, Maker, she's going to have to go with it.  
  
Isabela pulls back, looking at her askance. “What?”  
  
“Take me out. Tomorrow. Before anything else.”  
  
Isabela laughs, sounding skeptical. “Come on, big girl, you know I'm not really the dinner date sort. More of the casual drunken rutting sort. I'm predictable like that.”  
  
“Well, I'm not. I'm not casual at all. And I don't want to hear another word about this until we're sober.” Aveline takes a shaky breath. “If you want me, you'd better woo me. And if you don't want to woo me, I'll leave now and we don't have to talk about it again. We can pretend this never happened.”  
  
Isabela frowns. “Tomorrow?”  
  
It's almost too much to hope for; Aveline does anyway. “Dinner. And then we'll see what comes next.”  
  
Isabela bites her lip, looking not like herself. Aveline's not used to seeing her look hesitant about anything at all. But she nods at last. “Alright.”  
  
“Really?”  
  
“Really.”

*

The next night, Aveline doesn't expect Isabela to show up. But when she does—announcing herself with a rap on the door and only afterwards barging inside without an invitation, which is a marked improvement from the standard intrusion, really—Aveline's never been more surprised in her life. She pushes back from her desk.  
  
“Oh! Isabela! Are those—”  
  
Isabela sighs. “For you? Yes. If you ever tell anyone about this, you're dead, you know.” But she smiles, warm and sincere despite her words, and she meets Aveline across the room, handing her the flowers. “I'm wooing. How's that?”  
  
“Very romantic.” Aveline smiles. It's not nearly as agonizing doing this sober as she'd thought it might be, which is a blessing almost too great to bear. “I particularly liked the part where you threatened to murder me.”  
  
“Thank you. The fine art of seduction and all that.” Isabela touches her arm, almost hesitant; it's enough to send sparks coursing through Aveline. “I thought—there's this little shop in Lowtown, best food in all of Kirkwall even if that's not saying much, and I thought maybe we could get a bottle of wine and something to eat and take it down to this quiet spot east of the docks. Bring a blanket, you know, and sort of... picnic. Ocean breeze, moonlight, that shit.”  
  
“That shit,” Aveline echoes, raising a brow. Isabela pulls a face and Aveline laughs. “I like that plan. It's... oddly sweet.”  
  
“I'm glad you think so.” Isabela flashes a winning smile. “Anything to convince you to come to bed with me.”  
  
Aveline clears her throat and hopes the room is dim enough to mask her burning cheeks. “We'll see about that.”

It's strange, at first, as they walk through the city—both Aveline and Isabela glancing over their shoulders like they're embarrassed, half-terrified someone they know might see them together. And then they make eye contact at last, and Isabela smiles so bright and sincere that Aveline's heart jumps into her throat.  
  
“I'm out of my comfort zone,” Isabela says, soft voice echoing loud off the walls around them. She looks almost sheepish, not a hint of pretense in her eyes. “Go easy on me, won't you?”  
  
Aveline snorts. “You're out of your comfort zone? This is my first night out in years.”  
  
“Ugh!” Isabela laughs. “Don't tell me that. That's terribly embarrassing for you.” She pauses and then she reaches out, taking Aveline's hand in her own. “Things like this,” she says seriously, weaving their fingers together, “are nerve-wracking. And talking about it is even worse.”  
  
“What's your point?” Aveline asks. She glances down at their hands and then back at Isabela.  
  
“My point is,” Isabela says, “that I wouldn't be here at all if I didn't... you know... have some sort of...”  
  
She trails off, screwing her face up in a grimace, like she's swallowed something sour. Aveline grins, pleased. “Have feelings for me?”  
  
“Well,” Isabela says. She sniffs. “You don't have to make it sound so embarrassing.”  
  
“I'm glad you do,” Aveline says. She squeezes her hand and they make their way through the city, never once letting go.  
  
As the night ends, hours of wine and laughter and conversation later, Isabela smiles at her as they pack up their dinner. “We should do this again, you know. Let's make plans while I walk you back to the barracks?” Another question with the answer still unknown but the hope bright in her eyes. Aveline nods in eager agreement and feels happier than she thinks she's ever felt in all her life.  
  
When they make it back, the night ends with a shy promise of _tomorrow? tomorrow_ —and one chaste kiss, so soft and sweet that Aveline can't sleep a wink all night. All she can do is lie there, lips still burning, head still spinning.


	8. now that you're back from the dead (f!hawke/isabela)

viii. prompt: it took isabela three years to come home only to find that hawke moved on [one-sided hawke/isabela, hawke/fenris].

It's dangerous to be attached. To anything and to anyone, especially. Isabela knows that; she's known it all her life. She's _lived_ by it, murmured it into the ears of a hundred lovers, written it on her heart, carved it into her skin. Attachments are made to be broken and they're not worth the break.

And that's why she ran—that's the truth she's spent three years learning. Isabela's not a stupid woman; she knows you're supposed to run away from danger, not into its waiting arms. You're not supposed to stare right into its sea-blue eyes or kiss its stupid beak of a nose or—Maker, the thought is getting away from her. The point is: that's why she ran.

And now she's back.

She's not exactly sure what that says about her sanity, but it's too late now.

Kirkwall's the same, she thinks. Exactly how she left it. (But then again, she's making a point not to look too closely, too afraid of noticing some difference that will turn her hope to dust.) The smell, the sounds—it's all the same, and she knows right where she's going. She takes back alleys and rooftops, fearful that someone might recognize her: _That's the woman, that's the one who brought the Qunari to us._ She's not opposed to the notion of high drama in the city square; she'd rather just not be caught in the middle of it. Not today, at least. And so she makes her way to Hightown, moving through the city like a ghost, her racing heart only slowing to a steady pace when the sun at last sets behind the walls.

She finds Hawke's estate easily even in the darkness. She's not sure she could ever forget the way. All the windows look dark from the front and she hesitates outside the door. _Three years._ She hasn't planned this out, and it occurs to her then that maybe she should have spent the last three years coming up with some sort of speech. An apology eloquent enough to make up for everything she's ever done. But she's not sure where she would possibly begin, and she's not sure that three years would have been a long enough time to come up with the apology that Hawke deserves.

After a long, breathless moment, knuckles hovering awkwardly over the wood—as if she'd ever once knocked before—she turns away.

It's easy to scale the neighbor's house; they haven't improved their security since the last time she took this route, and Isabela hops up the low wall, clambers up the jutting bricks, and jumps up onto the roof with a soft huff of breath. Out of practice, she thinks, and she smiles to herself at the thought of relearning these steps, charting this path often enough to make up for three years away. Often enough to be a promise.

When she crosses to the other side, she can see the light on in Hawke's bedroom from here, and the sight is enough to make her chest ache: _she's there._

Isabela hesitates, and then at last decides that she's done hesitating once and for all.

She leaps across the narrow gap between the two roofs, and carefully lowers herself onto Hawke's wide window ledge. Hovering off to the side, just out of view, she presses her hands to the rough stone and closes her eyes. Buried in the recesses of her memory, she can hear Hawke's voice, warm with amused affection, so fond it used to make Isabela half-queasy: _I have a front door, you know. Shall I show you where it is?_ And her own laughter: _Now, where would the fun be in that, sweet thing?_ Her heart feels like it might burst into flames any minute now.

She shifts an inch to the side, touches a hand to the windowpane—

And her heart goes cold.

It hits her like a tidal wave, so hard it knocks the breath from her lungs. The thoughts come in a flood and then crystallize into one clear certainty: _I don't know what you were expecting. I don't know why you ever thought someone like you could deserve someone like Hawke._

She presses her fist to her mouth and chokes back the dry sobs building in her chest.

They're laughing: Hawke's head is thrown back, the wild crowing laugh Isabela always thought was reserved just for _her,_ and Fenris is grinning like a wolf, lost in some private joke silenced by the window between them. It occurs to Isabela then that she could sit here all night and they'd never notice her; they'd never tear their eyes off each other.

Hawke's wearing her old robe, but it's open in the front and she's bare beneath it. Even from the other side of the glass, Isabela can see the silver line of a new scar across her stomach. Her first thought is a flash of fear; it must have been a serious wound, cutting from her chest down to her waist. Her second thought—that it must be from the Arishok's blade, the cut that nearly killed Hawke and sent Isabela fleeing one more time—sends bile rising in her throat. A jagged reminder written on Hawke's body of just where Isabela went wrong. Fenris is naked, too, one hand on Hawke's thigh. Isabela's kissed her there a thousand times, kissed every single inch of her. It hits her then that she will never kiss Hawke again.

They've just had sex, Isabela realizes. They're laughing, leaning in for a kiss, whispering into each other's ears, hands still roaming over one another. She thinks of all the times she'd slipped away from the bed before Hawke's breathing even steadied, dressing in a rush and calling out a hasty goodbye before disappearing into the night; and she thinks of all the times that Hawke clutched at her hand, begged her to stay, and Isabela shook her off more roughly than she ever deserved. A cutting comment, a scoff of a laugh—and then out the window. Nothing like this.

She pulls away, back to the corner of the ledge where they can't see her, and retches hoarsely over the side. Her eyes burn, but no tears come and she wipes at them uselessly. It takes a long time for her breathing to settle.

 _You should have known,_ she thinks. _You idiot. You stupid selfish shallow idiot, to think that she would spend three years waiting for you. To think you were worth that. You—a coward. A thief._

When she turns back to the window, Fenris is on top of Hawke, his hips moving with a languid sort of ease. Like they've spent years learning each other, she thinks. Isabela can just barely make out the sharp lines of Hawke's profile through the window and she stares for a long minute, trying to memorize the peak of her nose, the soft curve of her lips, the way she looks when she comes undone beneath him. She sits there for what feels like an eternity, stomach churning, chest burning, paying her penance.

_This is what you get. You go and fall in love and this is what you get. What you deserve._

Slowly, fingers trembling, Isabela undoes the knot of the red scarf around her arm. For a moment, she thinks about letting it go: carried off by the wind, never to trouble Hawke again.

But she's not that noble. She's never been that noble.

She knots it around the handle of the window and tugs it tight. It's a good knot; a ship's knot. One last thing Hawke can remember her by, and one last thing Hawke can forget.

The grief hits her again the moment she's outside the city gates, nearly enough to drive her to her knees. She's spent three years running—from Castillon, from Hawke, from herself—and now she's not sure if she has the strength to run any more.

But at last she takes one step, and then another.

*

She's six months gone when they find her.

“Velasco,” she says, tired.

“Isabela,” he says, his grin glinting like the knives in his hands. “You look lovely, as always.”

“Hah,” she says—her hair tangled beneath her scarf, bruises dappled across her arms and legs, half-starved, a fresh scar pink on her cheek. “And you're prettier every time I see you.”

“You were hard to find,” he says. He takes one step forward. “That little Champion of yours—she tore through our landing in Kirkwall a few weeks back. Killed half our men. Nearly ruined everything, but me and Castillon, we got out just in time. You owe us double for that, bitch.”

Isabela opens and closes her mouth and tries to fit that strange new fact into her understanding of the world. And then she exhales, shaky. “She's not _my_ Champion.”

He moves forward again. “Did you really think you'd get away from us?”

“No,” she says. “Not really. I've got awful luck these days.”

When he lunges for her, she manages to jerk away, drawing her knives before he comes at her again. She thinks she can take him. He's never been a good fighter, and even now, like this, she's got him outmatched in technique, if not in strength. She can hear the others rustling in the bushes around him waiting on some sort of signal, but she doesn't hear more than three. It won't be easy, but it won't be impossible, either.

But—Maker, she's so sick of running.


	9. gladly beyond (solo!isabela + f!hawke/isabela)

ix. prompt: isabela has terrible period cramps, but luckily a little self-pleasure eases them. bonus points if she rides her pillow [implied f!hawke/isabela].

Isabela awoke with a groan already half-formed on her lips. Her whole body ached; even the slightest exploratory wiggle of her toes beneath the sheets only served to remind her of the dull center of pain between her hips that radiated steadily outwards. Slowly, she cracked her eyes open. The fire was out and the only signs of her guest the night before were a single boot forgotten under a chair and a worn red scarf dangling off the side of the bed. Her room seemed dusty and small in the grey light of morning.

Hawke must have stumbled out (or hopped out, given her abandoned boot) sometime before dawn, Isabela thought. She felt simultaneously disappointed and relieved—but not surprised, not after she'd spent the night reminding Hawke to be gone by daybreak. Isabela had been weak lately, _just this once_ over and over again, and she was increasingly desperate to convince them both that she meant it when she said spending the night was still forbidden. No feelings, no sleepovers. Those were the rules. So maybe some small part of her missed that lanky, warm body next to hers come morning. And maybe she missed waking up to a pot of tea, kisses scattered along her collarbone, and her favorite crowing laugh in her ears. But she was trying hard to avoid dwelling too long on any of that. All it ever did was get her into trouble.

At any rate, it was nice to have the whole bed to herself again, and the ache between her hips suggested that Hawke had picked the right night to obediently disappear. With a pained exhalation, Isabela stretched out her arms and legs and sprawled flat on her back. The cramping always came as suddenly as a blow to the back of her head. Awful—but brief. One day of misery and then it was gone, replaced by an occasional twinge so faint she hardly noticed it. Isabela had never been able to decide if she was lucky or not. Her mother had always served up admonitions in the thickly-accented Rivaini Isabela could still hear when she closed her eyes on days like these: _Every woman's bleedings are different, si, but not every woman wails like a little bitch._ Nothing like a mother's love.

Occasionally, when her mother had been sober and feeling particularly generous, she would make up a poultice for Isabela to rub over her stomach and her hips, a thick green paste that replaced the ache with a cold tingling. The relief was better than any magic. Isabela had tried to replicate it once, caught up in some whirlwind of nostalgia and throbbing muscles, but she'd only ended up with a useless sludge; her mother had never bothered to teach her the details. So she'd ground her teeth in frustration and downed two bottles of wine instead, which worked nearly as well.

There were other remedies to be found, too, ones which Isabela had thoroughly mastered. She shifted again, spreading her legs a little wider. Her smallclothes—all she wore—didn't feel like she'd made a mess of them yet, even if the insides of her thighs felt sticky when she pulled them apart. Her eyes fluttered shut again as she raised her hands first to her bare breasts, full and tender like always this time each month, more sensitive from the lingering memory of Hawke's hot mouth on them the night before. She touched her breasts slowly, almost reverently, squeezing and grazing her fingertips over her nipples until they pebbled beneath her hands. Her moan was soft enough to pass for a breath.

Isabela ran one hand over the curve of her stomach down to the edge of her smallclothes and dipped her fingers below the linen band. She groaned faintly, involuntarily, touching the very edge of damp curls and then dragging her fingers up and away. Her fingers felt like lightning on her skin. As she traced the path of Hawke's mouth from the night before, warm fire curled in her belly and began to erase the throbbing cramps. She slid her other hand over her body, from her breasts to the swell of her hips and down to settle on her thigh. Another soft sound escaped her, breathier this time, more desperate.

She soaked up the delight of exploring her own body, touching every inch of herself that she could reach; she took in the softness of her breasts and hips, her thighs, her calloused fingertips—and marveled at herself, at this body that renewed itself each month, this body that had once belonged to a girl taught to hate it and now belonged to a woman who could draw so much delight from it with only a touch. All of that crossed Isabela's mind in an instant—and then she pushed two fingers against her smallclothes, moaned, and briefly stopped thinking about anything at all. Her smallclothes felt damp and warm with arousal; she almost pushed them down her hips, but when she pulled her hand back on a sudden impulse, her fingertips were rust-red.

“Ah,” Isabela gasped, taking it in through the fog of want. “Shit, shit, _shit_.” Bleeding right through her smallclothes already, because wasn't that just her luck? The very last thing she wanted was bloody fingerprints all over the borrowed sheets—if they weren't ruined already. She groaned and ground her palm hard against the fabric between her legs, desperate for any bit of friction. The slightest sticky film clung to her hand; she drew it away, crossing her legs tight instead, hips bucking as she tried to find some elusive perfect angle. She wanted to thrust two fingers inside herself, wanted to roll her fingers over her clit, wanted to dismantle herself until every last ache faded away—as usual, she wanted all the things she couldn't have. All the things she would ruin with a touch. Behind clenched eyelids, she saw a crooked smile and sea-blue eyes.

The coiled fire in her belly flared, another wave of desire crashing into her. Desperate times and desperate measures and all that, Isabela decided. She rolled to the side and grabbed the pillow that had been beneath her head a moment before. It was a hard lump of a pillow, the sort you got when you paid your rent with apologies and promises, no good for sleeping and just right for this. It slotted into place between her legs when she drew herself to her knees, the pillow spreading her thighs and exacting a not-quite-enough pressure against her. Isabela shifted her hips, searching for the right angle and finding it with a gasp. Her fingers curled into the tangled sheets around her, rich brown in contrast to stark white and—there, in the corner, the little scrap of red, Amell crest half a shade darker. Hawke couldn't walk into a room without leaving half her belongings behind. Isabela closed her eyes tight again and focused on the rocking of her hips, lifting one hand to her breasts and steadying herself against the bed with the other.

Her rhythm was steady but never slow; she was too desperate, too lost in gnawing hunger and an uneasy blend of lust and longing to pause for an instant. It was easy to forget the dull throb from before when it met the lightning-sharp pain of pleasure, an electric ache that multiplied with each rock of her hips. The bed squeaked and complained beneath her. Her whole body jerked back and forth, thighs clenched right around the pillow, one hand knotted in the sheets and one hand pinching a nipple before sliding across her chest. A sharp breath turned into a shout. Her body felt hot to the touch, a fever-flush. This was all there was, all that mattered.

The heat between her legs spread out in tendrils, slowing crawling up to fill her chest, making her heartbeat pound in her ears and washing every last thought out of her mind. The pressure built; her pace turned staccato, heavy breathing replaced with grunts and whimpers and little cries of _fuck_ and _oh_ and _ah, ah, ah_ —until her voice cracked and her throat burned and wordless moaning took over all else. The bright lilt of her voice went low and ragged.

The pillow between Isabela's legs was hot and wet, almost slick with her own arousal now, yet still unmistakable as anything other than rough cloth around a sack of straw and cotton. But Maker, she tried. It could be a thigh that she straddled, hard muscle against her; her hands could rest on the flat plane of a bare stomach, pale and scarred and scattered with freckles like stars; it could all be different, everything—

Her release rolled in like a thunderstorm, a shuddering tremor that grew into an explosive, consuming cry. Her scream—too sharp to pass for a simple shout—seemed to echo off the beams of the ceiling for a hours. Isabela fell forward, barely steady on her knees and forearms, until the aftershock sent her crumbling flat on the bed with the pillow still clutched beneath her legs. And she lay there, still trembling and fighting to manage even the shakiest of breaths, until the lingering tension in her chest and her fingertips melted into a dazed, drowsy warmth.

Isabela took a breath. She rolled onto her back. And she tried to remember how to breathe. She hadn't expected that, the wild burst that left her eyes watery and all her limbs limp and useless. Not exactly the quiet, quick affair she'd planned for.

Carefully, she unstuck her legs from around the pillow. The mess wasn't as bad as she'd dreaded, a single brick-red streak, though she'd soaked it well enough regardless with sweat and frantic lust. She groaned and kicked the pillow to the floor, eyes flickering shut again. The day awaited; the light through her window was far brighter than when she had begun. But climbing out of bed sounded like an ordeal she couldn't quite bear.

Isabela steadied her breathing and settled a hand on her chest, feeling the beat of her heart slow into a calm rhythm at last. Just another minute, she decided. A single minute. Maybe two. Or ten. And then she'd—well, maybe she'd go deliver a certain worn-out missing boot to a certain miscreant with eyes like the ocean and the loudest laugh in all of Kirkwall. That would be the polite thing to do, really. Even _she_ had enough manners for that.

It was an excuse so perfect that you'd almost think that boot had been left there in the corner on purpose.

Almost. Just maybe. At that thought, Isabela almost-just-maybe smiled.


End file.
